


Mist

by stilinskisoul



Series: Derek/Reader ficlets [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, Feels, Fluff, POV Alternating, POV Derek Hale, POV First Person, POV reader, Seriously so many feels, Sweet Derek, derek hale imagine, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5954059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskisoul/pseuds/stilinskisoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Reader goes to a pack meeting, but ends up feeling bad. Derek takes care of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mist

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, though: **Trigger Warning** You've been warned.
> 
> I had so many feels last night, and it resulted in this little thingie. I hope you'll like it despite the slight dark-y stuff. (I've been listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VamJAMakiFM) on repeat during the entire process of writing, so sue me if it turned out too cheesy.)

I go over to Derek’s for the pack meeting. Not everyone is going to be there, just Stiles, Allison, Lydia, Scott, Derek and I. Isaac is currently busy because Erica tugged him along to help her pick out clothes for her date, and Boyd is out on lacrosse practice.

I haven’t been fine lately, what with everything that’s been going on in my life; choosing college, dealing with my—supposed—mild depression, social anxiety, trying to live up to all of the expectations around me, they either set up by others or myself. I haven’t talked about this with anyone so far—I’m not exactly the type to discuss my problems, instead I try to drown then or deal with them on my own as for succeeding with them, that varies.

I knock on the heavy metal door after climbing the stairs that lead up there. For some reason this time it was especially tiring for me, but I sweep that thought into the farthest corner of my mind, so that I won’t have to deal with it at the moment and focus my attention on the task at hand that involves the entire pack, not only me.

Lydia is the one to open the door for me. She smiles at me kindly before stepping to the side to let me in. I greet everyone in general, sufficiently surprised to find Peter among them as well. I figure he just doesn’t want to be an Omega, so his only choice is to join his nephew’s pack.

The only open seat is next to Peter, so I sit down there. I think I notice a flash of disapproval running through Derek’s features, but I convince myself it was merely my imagination.

The meeting is over pretty quickly—within an hour, at most. Since there was food served, I opt to stay for a little longer to help Derek get everything cleaned up.

During the meeting, I was asked once if I was feeling fine, but I shrugged and said, “Sure”. This is the moment when I start to realize how _not_ okay I am.

. o O o .

I’m collecting the dirty dishes from the table when I hear it—a loud knock. My head automatically turns in the direction of the source.

“(Y/N)?” I call out, worry engulfing me. Her heartbeat has been different from usual; there has been something odd with it—so with her entire being—but I only acknowledged it now how _eerily slow_ her heartbeat is, and has been. I’m not even sure her heart contracts twice within four seconds.

Dropping the glass bowls, I make a mad dash for the kitchen, only to find (Y/N) laying on the floor, lifeless. I rush over to her and start calling out her name, frantic, without a better guess of what to do with her. My mind is running a mile a minute as I helplessly listen to her bundle of muscles contracting slowly, weakly. It makes me worry all that much more.

I reach out for her face—it’s damp, yet her skin is pale and cold. Even her lips have lost their lovely rosy colour.

“(Y/N)! Hey, get up! Wake _up_! _(Y/N)!_ ” I yell. Her eyes snap open, thankfully. Her heart seems to catch up a bit also, which settles me a little. She props herself on her elbows, then looks around, confused, before her eyes latch on to me. I’m sure my face has gone a tad whiter, too.

“What happened?” she asks in a raspy tone, hardly audible as her voice weakly brushes through the air around us.

“Are you okay?” I ask instead of answering her. (Y/N) looks at me for a second, but then averts her eyes just as quickly. Slowly, she nods. By looking at her, I can conclude she’s either trying to make sense of the situation or too dazed still—or both. “What happened to you?” I ask this time, although it should probably the other way around. She swallows.

“I—I don’t know.”

“Come, sit,” I suggest, taking her hand and grabbing her other upper arm meekly to help her stand and walk over to the table where the chairs are. “I’ll be back in a second. Can you. . . stay conscious at least until I get back?”

(Y/N) takes a few seconds to actually react; she only nods her head twice, ever so slowly. She’s still extremely pale, but at least her heart rate sounds promising for now.

I recall that Stiles once left his coach’s blood pressure monitor here after having stolen it from the man, and although I’ve been meaning to give it back, I keep forgetting about it for having more pressing issues to remember—and for the first time, I’m actually glad that it’s still here.

I go back to (Y/N) with the device in my hand, and gently take off (Y/N)’s hoodie to get an access to her upper arm. I discover that her entire body is covered in cold sweat.

She cooperates as much as she can—pushing her arm through the band, setting her arm on the table, allowing me to switch the monitor on and wait for the results.

They are shockingly horrible: her blood pressure is 79/52, and her heart rate has dropped to 36. The normal would be 120/80 and 72 beats per minute. It makes me worried to a limitless extent, and my wolf howls in my mind painfully. My rushing thoughts are cut off by (Y/N) when she says, “I think I’ll puke.”

“I’ll bring something here for you,” I say immediately, bolting up from where I’ve been bending over the desk, still frozen in the position I saw the results. Sure enough, as soon as the bin is in front of her, (Y/N) retches. I instantly stand behind her, brushing her hair out of her face and off from her shoulders, making once big ponytail that I’m holding together in my palms. In my mind, I thank the gods up in heaven that she didn’t leave—I don’t even want to think about what would have happened to her if she were out on the streets, alone.

The next time (Y/N)’s body is forced forward, she actually vomits. I proceed to caress her back, trying to soothe her as best as I can, and offer her support. I want her to know that I’m here _for_ her; I’m here _with_ her. And I’m not leaving. I’ve never intended to leave—not her.

When she’s done, I take the bin and empty it. I make a beeline for my bedroom and return with a pair of sweats, a T-shirt and a hoodie in my hands. (Y/N) gives me a confused look, I explain.

“You’re covered in sweat. You need to change.”

She doesn’t object, doesn’t say anything, just nods.

I kneel in front of her to help her get rid of her shoes and pants, then help her out of her tank top as well. She seems so uncharacteristically unaffected by this situation that it makes my heart clench—it’s so _not her_.

I help her pull the tee over her head, then allow her to unclasp her bra under the shirt and get rid of the lingerie. I let her put her hands on my shoulders as I’m still on my knees, tugging my sweats upwards to cover her thighs. Her hold on my skin is unusually weak, waking instincts in me that I haven’t even known existed. When the pants are on her properly, I sit her back carefully on the chair so that I can add the final touch—which is covering her with my hoodie as well.

“May I lift you?” I ask. (Y/N) nods, still refraining from giving verbal responses. I’m completely fine with that, though. I slide my calloused hands in between the chair and her thighs and back. I pull her close to my chest and hold her there. She doesn’t reach out to wrap her arms around my neck, but that’s because she’s too powerless still. Her body starts shivering.

I approach my bedroom soon, where I lay her on the bed. Although it’s already gone dark, I tug the curtains closed nonetheless. I crawl in next to her, making sure she’s covered nice and fine with the comforter and the sheets. I’m sure she can’t see me, which is why I move to give her the chance to rest her head on my chest if she wishes so. I happily find that she _wants_ to do so. I adjust myself to make her comfortable, and sneak my arms around her back protectively, the other playing with her locks of hair softly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask despite myself, knowing I’m not at all good with pep-talks. I just want to give everything I can to (Y/N).

“I didn’t know what happened,” she begins silently, as though fearing that if she’s talking too loudly, she will destroy the bubble that has formed around us in the accompanying darkness. “You know, when you faint, your thoughts are constant, they are still there, so you don’t actually realize what has happened to your body until you come back to yourself. It’s more like a catatonic, not an unconscious state.”

“So you don’t remember anything at all?”

“No,” I can feel her shake her head against my chest, but it results in her hissing out in pain.

“What is it?”

She lifts her head a bit, touching around her left eye warily.

“I thought there was a wound here,” she explains after a couple of moments. “but it’s just pain.” After a short while, she adds, “In fact, my entire left eye area hurts. I must have hit something when I fell.”

I can’t help but instinctively brushing my fingertips over her skin, tracing the route her fingers drew there. She winces when I reach her eyebrow.

“There’s a bump here,” I announce. She exhales a deep breath before readjusting herself on my pectoral. I tighten my hold around her as my other hand finds her hair once more, fingers tangling in locks again. “What was it like?”

“Like a time lapse,” she answers after a short consideration. “The last thing I remember is that the room was spinning, then there are just my thoughts then you above me. It was all like a dream, actually. Like you still exist, but without a body. Then I saw you above me.” My thumb begins stroking her skin over the soft fabrics of my clothes. “Funny thing is that I _think_ I can recall a voice yelling at me to stay awake, but obviously I could do nothing for that. Then. . .” she falls quiet.

“What happened?” I ask, voice gentle and patient despite my curiosity. I can hear her swallow.

“Then just before waking up, there was another one, which said, ‘But I don’t want to wake up, it’s good for me like this.’ And I really didn’t want to. . . get up,” she admits, her voice slowly dying out as she reaches the end of the sentence. I feel a sudden void in my chest at the mere thought of losing (Y/N). In the end, I settle for saying the truth.

“I’m glad you did,” I whisper. I can hear the small, weak smile in (Y/N)’s voice as she says, “Thank you.”

I kiss her good night on her forehead.

“Thank you for everything,” she repeats before falling asleep.

A teardrop dampens my shirt, and I hold her closer to me.

“Thank you for being alive still,” I grit out through my teeth, planting another lingering kiss on her forehead. “Thank God I still have you.”


End file.
